Rites of Purification
by saudades
Summary: Post-RENT. Events begin the morning after the show’s timeline ends.
1. Chapter One

Title: Rites of Purification (1/?)

Rating: R

Summary: Post-RENT. Events the morning after the show's timeline ends.

Disclaimer: All characters are property of the Jonathan Larson estate.

_Rites of Purification_

I am pulled awake by the soft sensation of someone stroking my cheek. Sore and achy everywhere else, it is as though all the pleasant sensations in my body are concentrated underneath those smooth, gentle strokes, given by strong, sure fingers. I open my eyes, and Roger smiles at me. Laying his head back down on the pillow next to mine, he whispers, "Good morning." I smile widely. He runs his fingers into my hair and massages my scalp for a moment. I could purr. Looking into my eyes again, he murmurs, "I love you." My throat burns with a sweet feeling, the way your mouth kind of hurts if you swallow a lot of honey at once. I can't even speak, just mouth the words back at him as he watches my face. Closing his eyes, he moves his hand to my chest, settles it over my heart, and just…waits. Sighing, he presses harder, feeling the heartbeat. A tear slowly makes its way from the inner corner of his eye to the crevice on the side of his nose.

"Why are you crying?" I manage to get out, a whisper of wonder.

"Because I'm happy," he says, and leans his forehead against mine. Now I know that I have really been reborn, that I've woken up in a world full of endless possibilities, where Roger can cry in front of me and we can say "I love you" as though it is the most natural thing. I like this new version of the world.

Roger wraps his arms around me, like a promise that we could stay in this new, tiny universe bounded by the sheets and covers as long as I want, but his stomach growls loudly and I laugh. Pressing a kiss to his lips, I throw back the blanket and slide out. I will pay no mind to these cramps in my lower abdomen. I just won't.

In the kitchen, Mark is eating cereal, and as he looks up, he smiles shyly at me, standing quickly, pulling out a chair for me. Aw, chivalry is not yet dead. Roger swipes the box away and pulls down two bowls, clearing his throat aggressively. Digging through that messy drawer for spoons, he offers the box to me. My stomach, in an attempt to try out for the U.S. gymnastics team, seems to reject that idea, and, with a despairingly sinking sensation, I realize what that familiar ache in my calves is. Gesturing for Roger to follow me back into his bedroom, I look at the floor. Damn. So much for my brave new world.

"Babe…I'm illing," I say, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. This is it. He'll slam out the door and never give me a chance to explain. But when I look up, Roger's face, although lined by pain and anxiety, is still looking down at mine.

"Meems, you can't, I mean, I just can't let—"

And then the truth, the one thought I've carried around for almost two years, is coming out of my mouth, and I'm giving it to Roger like a precious gift: "I wanna get clean." I can see his eyes close in relief. "I'm scared," I add, as a second thought.

We agree that I will shower and he will eat and then we will sit down and plan…something. I don't know. Kissing him before I enter the bathroom, I notice he leans away quickly, barking a dry cough into his hands. Damn. What a time for him to get sick. When I step out of the bathroom, enjoying the warmth of terrycloth all around me, I can hear voices from the kitchen—well, one voice and that damn cough.

"…not worried about _you_, Roger…"

I enter the kitchen to find the two them standing on either side of the table, Roger with his arms crossed tensely over his chest, defensive, while Mark leans forward with his hands on the tabletop, his shoulders tight and raised. Maybe I haven't spent enough time with them to know for absolutely sure, but this arrangement generally indicates that Mark is in the right, and Roger knows it and doesn't want to admit it. (When Roger knows he is correct, which isn't necessarily very often, he'll thump the table. I learned early on not to argue while anyone was attempting to eat—too much clean-up.) My entrance seems to be enough to stop conversation. Mark glares at Roger before pushing away and resettling on the couch, where he picks up the camera lying there and proceeds to methodically clean the lens. I look at Roger, my hands on my hips so he'll know I mean business. He avoids my eyes but uncrosses his arms, sitting his hands in his back pockets.

"I told Mark about your…about our conversation," he begins, and I glance at Mark, since this is when anyone with normal-friend boundaries would leave the room for a minute. But Mark is still polishing away, checking the viewfinder and grimacing to himself. Roger lowers his voice a little, although maybe his throat is just scratchier than I thought. "You know we both totally support you in, you know, whatever. And we should talk about what you want to, um, do…I assumed you weren't too big on going to a hospital—" I involuntarily take a step backwards, feeling the muscles in my neck and back tense. I hate those fucking places. They're cold and if you don't have insurance they treat you like shit and Angel died in one. Fuck that shit. But Roger is smirking at me, and I calm down enough to smirk back. Okay, so the boy knows me well enough. "Right," he continues, "but that does leave us…um, you…"

"It's okay to say 'us'," I put in quietly. I want to sit, because the pain in my abdomen is growing and snaking upwards into my arms. My legs hurt too, like the growing pains you get when you're a kid, but stronger and deeper, but I want to hear Roger out first.

He's visibly approaching a part he doesn't like. "So, maybe, we could do this at home…" I start to nod, but stop when Roger breaks out with another round of dry coughing, this time strong enough to make his whole torso shake. "But, um…" And he coughs again. The veins in his neck stand out. When he finally stops, he looks exhausted. "But…" and he can't seem to finish his sentence, gesturing angrily to Mark, who's risen from the couch and somehow procured a glass of water when I wasn't looking. Roger takes the glass and wraps his hand around his forehead, massaging his temples with thumb and pointer.

"Mimi," Mark begins, and even though his voice is soft, I jump when I hear it. "Roger's obviously getting sick. Your immune system is already pretty tired, and detoxing's only going to make you more vulnerable."

"I will _not_ go to a hospital, Mark Cohen, I—"

"Nobody wants you to," he throws in quickly, one hand held up as if to stop my impending flight. "Nobody wants you to," he says again, softer. The question is clearly written on my face. "Stay here. But let's get Roger out of the house for a few days." I can almost palpably feel my jaw drop, and I turn to Roger, who looks like he's ready to break something, clenching and unclenching his fists. He meets my eye and then looks away. Mark continues.

"It'll be okay, Meems. I know Roger won't be here, but, uh…" and he glances at Roger, shifting his shoulders apologetically, "I, um, actually kind of know what I'm doing…" He looks from my face to Roger's, sighs heavily, and excuses himself.

For a moment, the silence is immense, weighing on us heavily. I may be lucky—shit, I may be the luckiest person alive, because I am alive, and I am in a room with the man I love and he loves me and we're clear on that—but I better remember that I'm not in a fantasy land, that this world didn't change too much just because I left for a minute. Same old shitty decisions here. But this time, if Roger leaves, he'll be leaving because he knows he loves me. It makes a difference.

"Does he know how to make good hot chocolate?"

Roger's head snaps up and he stares at me like I'd spoken in Martian. "What?"

"Does Mark make good hot chocolate? It's one of my comfort foods, and I imagine I'm going to want—"

"You're not going to want anything." He looks ashamed for having said it, but continues anyway. "Well, except for one thing." We both stare at our feet for a moment, and then suddenly he has caught me up in his strong arms. "Oh, God. I want to be here for you so bad, you know that, right? I want—"

"Shhh," I say, soothingly, running my hands up and down his back. "I know." And, maybe just because I remember that I can say it now, I whisper, "I love you so much that it fucking hurts, and I'm terrified, right? Fucking terrified, but I love you and I'm worth this and we're worth this and it'll be okay. Right?" That last word out, barely a squeak, makes Roger tighten his arms around me, and my arms around his back clasp tighter too, and I think he's crying and I know I am. A long moment passes and suddenly I am feeling a tiny bit calmer, still scared, but like maybe Roger squeezed the panic out. There are soft steps in the hall and we release each other and turn to face Mark, who is peeking tentatively into the kitchen. Roger takes my hand, holding tightly, and Mark smiles at us. Roger manages a lopsided smile at Mark, who is slowly circling the table, his hands stuffed in his front pockets.

"Want me to call Maureen?" he asks, grinning, and Roger throws his head back in mock dismay and moans. "Hey, hey," cautions Mark, laughing, "you just better work on this whole social thing. You clearly need more negative friends. In the meantime, go pack some stuff for yourself." Roger groans again and drags himself out of the room. "Bring some earplugs; she's got a new piece going up in a few weeks!" From the bedroom, Roger bellows magnificently and slams the door.

Picking up the phone, Mark swivels towards the door, looks at me, seems to change his mind and plunks down on the sofa. He immediately slides over to indicate that I am welcome, so I sit too.

"Hello, Maureen," he says after a pause. "How are—oh, really? That's great…No, I didn't—hey, Maureen, can we…" He rolls his eyes melodramatically and I giggle; I can't tell if this show is to calm him down, or me. "Mo! Can I get a word in here? Please?" There seems to be a pause on the other side of the line. Mark takes a deep breath and grasps my shoulder comfortingly. The pain is worsening, and I'm having trouble focusing on one image at a time. "I need to ask a favor…"


	2. Chapter Two

Title: Rites of Purification (2/?)

Rating: R

Summary: Post-RENT. Events begin the morning after the show's timeline ends.

Disclaimer: All characters are property of the Jonathan Larson estate.

I think I must have vocalized this thought I keep having—that time has gotten a little slippery lately—because Mark went out today for an hour and came back with a little day calendar for me, among other things. "Other things" including, of course, a small container of take-out wonton soup from that super-cheap place on 6th that he loves so much.

"Cross days off, if you think it'll help you keep track," he said. "I think it might help. And eat some soup…please?" And when he's making those eyes at you, it's hard to say no. So I grunted and made an effort at sitting up in bed and trying to waive him away when he plunked down into the chair that seems to have permanently moved to my bedside. I was still trembling pretty visibly, though, so my efforts to shoo him away were half-hearted. I sipped some of the soup and handed the container back to him so I could look at the new daybook. Flipping through, I found the date—December 27th—and put a large "x" through all the preceding days. Day three, if you can count that first awful afternoon and evening, watching Roger hastily pack and finally curling up on the couch with his old blue blanket and bawling my eyes out, at the confusion and the growing ache in my legs and the sadness at knowing he wouldn't be here to hold me and the scariness of not being able to form coherent thoughts and hold them in my mind for very long. Mark just retreated to his room with the phone for a while, and then I could here him messing about in our bedroom, and then he came out and started wiping down stuff in the kitchen for a while with the Lysol Joanne had brought him when she came to pick up Roger. I couldn't believe how goddamn calm he was being about everything, even though his jaw was set far more firmly than it usually is. When I finally calmed down enough to stop wiping my eyes and nose, he came and sat down on the couch next to me for a minute.

"Mimi, can we talk for one minute?" I must have vaguely nodded, because he kept talking. "I just wanted to get some things out there before this gets as ugly as it's gonna get. You know that we're doing this for your own health, right?" I nodded. "And that I'm doing this because you want to, right? But I also want you to understand that we're not backing out. We're gonna stay here till the worst is over. And you may think that you've changed your mind a few times between now and the finish point, but once you're signed up, you're signed up, okay?"

"Mark, we've been over this. I'm not going to change my mind." He looked vaguely troubled, as though remembering something upsetting, and said nothing. He did, though, reach down and grab my hand for a second, and, I guess noticing how my tiny _manos_ make even his non-rock-star hands look particularly masculine and strong, smiled.

"I'm just glad you're actually my size," he said with a small grin. "But we may have to do something about those nails. We'll see."

When I open my eyes from a strange sleep filled with dreams of musical instruments that fly around the city, Mark is leaning out the window, filming. The sun is almost set—must be about 4:30—and I feel like someone has taken my body and just squeezed, like I were a damp cloth. I have to pee, and with a massive amount of effort, I push the blanket onto the floor. Mark turns around quickly, smiles to see me awake and coherent, and turns off his camera, placing on the table.

"Can I help you, Meems?" he asks, squatting next to the couch, tentatively offering an arm for me to lean on.

"No," I growl, embarrassed by his proximity, embarrassed by my own smell, tormented by half-memories of the night before, darkness, sweat, a fever, can't find Roger, howling for him, clawing at the walls. I force myself to the edge of the couch, dangling my feet over the edge. Deep breath, Mimi _chica_. There you go. I'm barely standing when the wobbling begins. I mean to grab at the couch, at the nearby chair, but I end up grabbing Mark instead, and he doesn't laugh and he doesn't wrinkle his nose in disgust—I had some pretty bad sweats earlier—just helps me straighten up and asks almost cheerily, "Where to?"

"The bathroom," I whisper, and off we go. Mark opens the door and pauses; this is the first time he's actually had to help me all the way here.

"Um…I'll just wait outside?" he manages, and this actually elicits a giggle.

"Okay, Mark," I say, winking at him, making sure to leave the bathroom door a crack open. Everything is close enough in this tiny room at I can maneuver and support myself at the same time. The phone rings, and I expect to hear some movement, but then I remember that only in normal homes do people respond to the sound of the telephone with action. Then, a voice is audible on the machine: "Hey, you guys, I'm pretty sure there's a good chance that somebody's home, 'though I'll understand if your indispo—" That deep baritone could only be one person, and I can hear Mark cursing and scrambling. Serves him right; they need to learn to answer that damn thing.

"Hey, hey, Collins!" I can hear Mark shout into the receiver, jubilant as a little kid. "Yeah, we're—yeah," he says, he voice full of his smile. "No, I don't think—Hey, Mimi?" he shouts. "Feel like having a visitor?"

"Absolutely, but I need time to clean up first!" I shout back, one hand on the sink to control the wave of dizziness that accompanies the effort of raising my voice. Whenever I was illing, I always got the feeling that my sweats were somehow toxic, something ugly and nasty oozing through my skin. Now, I can't help smelling myself and thinking that this is the stink of addiction. I'd rather rub some of that off before I have to deal with anyone other than Mark.

"Don't worry about that, we'll get you all scrubbed up. What? Oh, fuck you, Collins, get your mind out of the fucking gutter. Yeah. Well, what about six o'clock?" After a moment's pause, he says something else, but he lowers his voice, and I can't make out the words. In the meantime, I finish my business, savoring the feeling of sitting upright, and am propped up by my hipbones on the sink, washing my hands, when Mark taps the door and gently nudges it open. I'm dizzy as shit, but I manage a small smile at him.

"So," he says, running a hand through his hair, "let's figure out how to get you cleaned up." He disappears again, bringing back one of the only pots we have in the loft, something Collins apparently liberated years and years ago from one of those restaurant-supply places on the Bowery. Roger told me that Maureen used it in one of her performances as a drum, or maybe a hat…maybe both. Mark fills it with water and sets it down in the bathtub, laying a bar of soap next to it, and a towel that I can only hope is clean. "Now, you really need to sit and stay seated, but if you're careful about it, you should be able to do it on your own." He looks me in the eye, blushing, and then he shrugs. "Anything's gotta be better than having me sponge-bathe you." He came up with this plan just a little too quickly, and suspiciously, I ask, "Mark, did you ever sponge-bathe Roger?"

When I finally make it out of the bathroom, what feels like a long time later, it's as if I've shed an old skin. I've always been an enjoy-the-small-good-sensations kind of person anyway, but damn if that half-ass little pseudo-bath didn't make me feel better than I would have thought possible. I found fresh sweatpants and one of Roger's old shirts piled politely next to the bathroom door, and managed to get into them without falling over. The loft has obviously been aired, making it smell fresh, even if it's a little bit cold. Mark is wiping down the table with that Lysol shit again, and I grin with delight, because I see he's laid a new blanket on the couch for me.

"Hey," he says, smiling at me, that quiet smile. "Feel better?"

"Oh, man," I say, sinking gratefully back onto the couch. "You have no idea." And, because the words are already out of my mouth, I have to wonder if he _does_ have an idea. Roger prefers not to talk too much about his own detox experience, and Mark almost never mentions it, at least not when I'm around. There were a few incidental details I picked up from Maureen, but all of them seem pretty tight-lipped about it, which makes me think it wasn't a good time in the "family history".

"Mark?" And I know I shouldn't be doing this, but I really can't help it—my whole self is suddenly feeling exhausted from the efforts of bathing and the fatigue is creating some sort of emotional liability. "If you were to speak, um, comparatively, am I—" The phone blares suddenly, and we both jump. Mark, without even bothering to pick it up, leans out the window, waves, and drops his key. Turning quickly to get the door, he says, "Meems, you're a hundred times easier than Roger. For more reasons than I can even explain. Don't worry about it." He smiles at me, the quiet Mark smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. I don't think I'll ask anymore today.

When Collins sweeps in the front door, I want to cry with happiness. It's so good to see friends, real friends, people who love you and care for you and—most importantly—aren't going anywhere.

"Hello, _querida_," he says, kissing my forehead and using Angel's pet name for me, as Mark relieves him of the bouquet he's got in one hand, exclaiming mockingly, "For me? Aw, honeybear, you didn't!"

"Hey, let the lady see her flowers before you shove them in water! Were you raised in a barn, sir?" Collins asks, mock-indignant, while Mark bows remorsefully and sticks the flowers in my face.

"They're lovely," I say in a small voice, closing my eyes. Mmm, roses. "Have they recently…uh, achieved freedom?"

Collins laughs outright, exclaiming, "Yes! Newly liberated and zealous about living life!" Mark grins wryly, shakes his head, and disappears out of my line of sight. I hear water running, and he calls out, "Guys? Tea?" Collins nods enthusiastically, but I shake my head emphatically no, which makes him laugh.

"Has Mark been forcing onto you our shared philosophy that tea can heal the world? That boy will never learn. Oh, and before I forget—these are also for you," and he places in my hands a small box of very nice candy—all dark chocolate, which is my favorite. I look up at him, confused, whispering my bewildered thanks. I'm about to ask him, but he saves me the effort by saying, nonchalantly, "I ran into an old comrade, and, when I explained where I was going, he insisted on sending something along for my sick friend." His voice is just a hint too controlled, and suddenly, I remember in a flash why I recognize this brand: _standing with Benny, somewhere in midtown, somewhere I'd normally have no business being, pausing before a window, candy shop, "Pick your favorite", mouth watering at the smell, indicating the box and leaning in towards his ear, whispering "I like them dark" and feeling his small shiver._

"Um…thanks," is all I can manage. Collins sits down next to me and gives me such a compassionate look that I don't feel guilty—I'm not even as confused. Mark brings his tea around from the other side of the couch, and as they pass the steaming mug, they lock eyes. I'm not even sure whose protecting who from what, at this point. I don't like these secrets, but I'm comforted by knowing that at least their purpose is to protect others, each other, and not ourselves. It makes a difference, like Roger's leaving the loft to protect us, to give us more time. Motives, and not necessarily the actions that result from them. Mark keeps reminding me that healing is a long process, that even after these first few days of agony, I may still have periods of physical weakness. That even after my physical addiction is cracked, there is healing left to do. I think this strange family is in the same position right now—the moment of tragedy has passed, but they—we—still need to heal. I think it might take a while. But Collins is leaning back on the couch, one arm slung amiably around me, laughing as Mark tells some story about our mailman, hands flying as he speaks. So, there's work to be done. I can live with that.

The best part is, I will live with that.


End file.
